


Yellow

by bravinto



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Belly Rubs, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravinto/pseuds/bravinto
Summary: There is a linden tree outside Foggy’s apartment. It’s stormy tonight, and the naked branches sway wildly in the wind, casting bizarre, bobbing shadows on the walls and ceiling washed in the yellow street light. Foggy blinks. It’s probably the nightmare that woke him. 
or Foggy needs some comfort when he's down with stomach flu+ podfic!





	

**Author's Note:**

> just a bit of fluff for anyone who needs it
> 
> kindly beta-read by sublime42!!!
> 
> UPDATE: there is now a podfic! follow the link at the top of the text to hear me read it (oh my).

 [Download podfic from Mediafire](http://www.mediafire.com/file/tad6fc2pg93ny0j/Yellow.mp3)

 

There is a linden tree outside Foggy’s apartment - a rarity in Hell’s Kitchen; he’s fairly certain that the tree has it’s own column in his monthly rent bill. It’s stormy tonight, and the naked branches sway wildly in the wind, casting bizarre, bobbing shadows on the walls and ceiling washed in the yellow street light.

Foggy blinks. It’s probably the nightmare that woke him. Well, ‘nightmare’ is too strong a word for it; it’s just an unpleasant, sickly dream he always gets with fever. Something huge, enormous falling very slowly but imminently down. It is probably as big and massive as a black hole. He is late, very late somewhere, but where? He is late by a thousand years. He is a tiny astronaut in the belly of a whale. It’s nauseatingly stiff here inside, but if he climbs out, it’ll be too cold. There is a giant heart beating in a room on the last floor of a building opposite his. It’s so large that it fills up the whole room, and it will suck him in like a turbine engine, if he gets too close. Those are the fever dreams he can recall, it must have been something of that variety. He’s both chilly and too warm, a little achy in the joints, so yeah, that’s fever alright.

The thermometer is somewhere on the nightstand, and it’d be wise to check the temperature, but that would involve moving and even worse, turning the lights on. The flu in his stomach seems to have fallen asleep, and he’d rather not wake it. So Foggy just stays where he is, on his back in the middle of the bed, feeling spacey but strangely at peace. He really needed a break. With all those cases and workload, it’s no wonder he got sick. It would have been nice to rest, if only he didn’t feel so shitty.  He watches the shadows dance ceaselessly, like a trippy movie projected onto his wall, and floats in and out for an indefinite period of time to their tireless rhythm.

 

A gust of cold wind bursts into the room when the window opens. The devil climbs inside - quietly, carefully, as if not to disturb the peace. He doesn’t close the window right away, and the wintery smell fills the room. It’s starkly fresh in contrast with the stale, warm and sick air of the bedroom. The devil undresses; it’s a little awkward, the zippers too stiff and far out of reach, boots too tight, but Foggy doesn’t laugh, because he’s seen it a thousand times, and it’s familiar now. The horned helmet comes off -  it’s Matt underneath, as always, his hair sticking spectacularly in all directions; and Foggy is suddenly aware of how at home he feels now, and how _not_ he was feeling just minutes ago.

The armor is down, but Matt still thinks he’s Daredevil, judging by how he stalks closer silently, so as not to wake him. Usually Matt is good at guessing whether Foggy is awake or not, but this time maybe he can’t tell because Foggy isn’t sure himself. He’s gotten more used to the super senses thing these past months. He has a complicated relationship with Daredevil, especially the vigilante aspect of it, but at the same time, he’s glad that Matt has this outlet, a place where he can be free and run wild, not limited by anyone’s perceptions of him. Foggy works harder to understand him and it seems like Matt is also learning to balance his life a little better. Perhaps one day Foggy and Daredevil might become friends. Now though, he’s sick and he just wants his sweet and goofy friend to comfort him, so he says:

“Hey Matty.”

The change is visible, in the darkness of the room Matt’s face goes softer, a little younger. The smile on his face is small, but it touches his eyes.

“Hey Foggy,” he replies quietly.

He crawls up to Foggy and sniffs, sucking in the air from around his face.

“Hmmm. Fever,” he murmurs and rubs his cold cheek against Foggy’s.

Sometimes Matt is such a cat.

“Bad?” Foggy asks.

“Nah, just a bit warm.”

 Matt’s lips find his, and he opens up into a slow kiss. He’s too tired to really do anything, he just lets Matt lick inside and sucks on his tongue a little, which feels awesomely cool in Foggy’s too hot mouth. When Matt lets go of him, he squints at the green numbers on the clock. It’s 01.31; somehow it felt like Matt was out a lot longer than a couple of hours.

 “You’re early,” he says.

 “Not much to do tonight,” Matt shrugs. “I got the information I needed on the drug dealers I’m working, the rest of patrol was quiet. Nobody wants to go out in this weather.”

 “Except you.”

 Matt grins.

 “I’m not like the other guys.”

 “Yeah, a true hipster.”

 Matt takes something from the nightstand, it’s too dark for Foggy to see, until it touches his lips, cold and liquid.

 “Hydration,” Matt supplies helpfully.

 Foggy is not very thirsty, but he doesn’t protest, because hydration is important when you are sick. He gulps the water, then slows down, in case the flu decides to come back with a vengeance and a puking spell. Matt takes the glass away from him and yawns.

 “No blood in bed,” Foggy reminds him, because that’s where he draws the line.

 “There _is_ no blood,” Matt argues, pawing at the blanket, eager to get in bed. “It was a simple scout job, there was virtually no violence at all!”

 “Wash your face anyway,” Foggy tells him.

 Matt pouts but gives in. When he’s almost out of the room, a sudden question bubbles up to the surface of Foggy’s syrupy mind:

 “Hey, Matt?”

 “Yeah?”

 “What does fever smell like?”

 Matt thinks for a moment.

 “Catnip.”

 

  
Foggy is surprised when Matt climbs into bed after what seems like seconds, but now he’s warm and his hair is damp like he’s taken a shower. Foggy must have drifted off again. Matt gathers him close carefully, trying not to jostle him too much, flips Foggy’s pillow cool side up (Foggy loves him for shit like that, honestly), then snakes an arm under it so that Foggy is both in his arms and still comfy on his pillow. It’s great. It’s genius.

“How do you feel?” Matt asks.

“A little queasy,” Foggy admits.

“Does it hurt?” Matt asks.

It doesn’t hurt as much as it feels like a big, hot, heavy brick in Foggy’s gut. With a thoughtful look on his face Matt touches his belly, a slow careful motion, and massages a little over Foggy’s achey bowels. It’s something which is both feeling and listening, he explained one time.

“Eh,” Foggy says and shrugs. “Not so much anymore.”

Matt keeps  rubbing his stomach and presses a small but satisfying burp out of him. After a while the hot and heavy brick softens somewhat, and Foggy sighs.

“Better?” Matt asks.

“Yeah. You wanna know a secret? I love when you do it.”

“When I do what?”

“The scanner thing, the ultrasound hands thing.”

Matt snorts, predictably, at Foggy’s favorite ‘ultrasound’ epithet.

“Then why do you always scold me for it? You said that it was creepy.”

 “Well it is, a little bit, I mean, especially out in public. But in here? I like it.”

 Matt grins at him, because he probably knows that Foggy has a bit of a kink, and bringing up the fact that Matt can hear heartbeats or tummy gurgles, smell and feel all sorts of private details about your body in a public space makes him embarrassed. Thankfully, he lets it go for now.

 “I’m sick,” Foggy says. “Comfort me.”

 “How?”

It’s a simple question, just asking calmly for directions. Years ago it would have been panic. It _was_ panic, when it so happened that Matt had to take care of Foggy, sometimes. They still struggle their way towards functional and healthy, but it’s the moments like this that remind Foggy how far they’ve come.

 “Make me feel safe and cozy, also maybe get me to fall asleep, if you know any tricks.”

Matt pulls him close, and Foggy burrows into his chest, wiggles his belly into the comfortable nook where Matt’s warm side meets the bed. Matt nuzzles his hair and takes deep breaths, like always. These past couple days Foggy has tried to maintain the basic hygiene, mostly for Matt’s sake, but you can only care so much when you’re sick. He cannot possibly smell well; he must be stinking of sweat and vomit and crap. Catnip, too, apparently. But Matt just snuggles, unconcerned. Come to think about it, he’s probably used to filtering out nasty smells. Foggy wants to ask about it, but he gets floaty again, less shivery in the toasty embrace and close enough to hear Matt’s heartbeat. He’ll ask later, maybe tomorrow. Shower, too, if he feels better.

He can’t see the shadows of the branches from here, but they must still be there, the irregular motion of black on yellow. Let them dance, he thinks. He likes windy nights, especially now that nausea has lifted off. Matt is solid and grounding, wrapped around him protectively, a secure hold against bad dreams and fevers and all the murky fears of the night. Foggy thinks of sunlight and sleeps.

 

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: all the fever nightmares Foggy listed were the actual dreams I had myself when I was sick


End file.
